


Into the Nightmare

by Radiday



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Depression, Drug Use, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 22:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17031375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiday/pseuds/Radiday
Summary: Fred deals with the aftermath of watching his son walk into the Canadian wilderness. It doesn't go well.





	Into the Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> tw for depression, drug use, and suicidal thoughts
> 
> This doesn't end totally happily, because I don't think Fred would be very happy or hopeful right now.

Fred's taken enough trips around the sun to know this feeling well. The emptiness, the burrowing hole in his stomach that makes itself at home and never goes away, that’s somehow even darker and deeper than when his dad died and when Mary left.

He’s dealt with it each time, survived it, come out on top, come out stronger, but in this moment he can’t for the life of him remember how he did it.

He’s lost people before, obviously. The men closest to him. His brother. His father. A friend or two to death or gangs… He knows that sometimes goodbye means _goodbye_ — a permanent, fixed forever. He also knows that you don’t always get to say it.

He sees no future, no foreseeable way out, no light at the end of the tunnel. What he sees before him is just as dark as the backwoods of the border he’s let his son loose in.

He wants his mother, wants his father, wants someone that will tell him it’s going to be alright. But his father wouldn’t do that, not a chance, because he’d never been one to mince the truth. He could call his mother, could cry to her over the phone, and he know she’d give him just what he needs, but he can’t bring himself to tell her what’s he’s done, how he’s let his only child off into the world unprotected…

_You’ve done a bad thing, Freddy._

So, he finds himself ashamed and alone. The men he meets at the Riverdale border point guns at him and tell him he no longer lives in the town he’s spent his whole life in, and part of him finds it fitting.

He’s lost every other meaningful thing in his life, why not this too?

His first thought is to yell, scream bloody murder, like a child throwing a tantrum, like Archie did when Fred tried to get him to eat broccoli, but he doesn’t. Settles for punching the steering wheel and putting the car in reverse. Takes one last look at the scene before him, the police aiming their weapons at him, and it’s in that moment he feels the weight of his life, gone in the blink of an eye.

 _Pull the trigger_ , he doesn’t say. _I have nothing left to lose._

He’s halfway to Greendale when he gets the message.

_‘Riverdale’s on lockdown. Nobody in or out. Serpents have a spot in Greendale. Meet us there.’_

It’s from FP, because it has to be. There’s literally nobody else he has left.

The address FP sends him takes him down the backwoods of Greendale’s south side, and it’s not long before he pulls up to an old airstream trailer, sees FP waiting for him at the door. It takes him a minute to get out of the truck, to pull himself together enough to show his face to another person.

Jughead directs him to a full-size bed in the back of the trailer, says he’s been driving all night and should get some sleep. Fred doesn’t want to sleep, doesn’t want to do anything, doesn’t want to  _exist_ , but he’ll be damned before he tells a sixteen-year-old kid that, so he nods and says his thanks.

The clothes FP gives him to change into feel stiff and foreign on his body. FP can’t remember who they originally belong to, just that they’d probably been washed with too much starch. Serpents aren’t great at laundry, he says.

FP pulls the grimy curtain that separates the bedroom from the rest of the trailer and tells Fred to get some rest. From the other side Fred can hear the Jones’ hushed words, mumbling about a plan to get back into town.

He tries to sleep, even tries pulling the covers over his head like when he was a boy, but half an hour later and he’s still awake, still _existing_ —

And his son is out there — God knows where —

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

FP catches Fred’s eyes and feels his heart sink when the face he sees looking back at him is as dull and soulless as it was the day they put Artie Andrews into the ground.

“I can’t,” Fred says, but it comes out hoarse.

FP fiddles with the fraying door frame. “Hey,” he says finally. “He’s going to come back, Fred.”

“You don’t know that,” Fred says to the ceiling.

“He’s going to come back,” FP says again, this time firmer. He sits on the edge of the bed, awkward, wanting to reach out and touch his friend...

They stay silent for what feels like hours, and FP’s almost certain Fred’s gone to sleep, watching his eyes droop shut then open again, when he bolts up. “I have to go get him. I just left him out in the middle of nowhere. How could I-”

“Hey,” FP says, catching Fred before he can fully get out of the bed. “Hey, hey, hey. Fred, look at me.” He takes a hold of Fred’s shoulders, forcing eye contact.  “Listen. There’s no way you’ll be able to find him. He’s long gone by now. But he’ll come back. You hear me? He’ll come back.”

“I can’t lose him.”

“You won’t.”

“I won’t make it,” Fred says quietly, looking anywhere but FP’s eyes.

“I know.”

“I _can’t_ lose him,” Fred says, tears pooling in his eyes.

FP sighs and rubs his hand down Fred’s back. “You’re exhausted, Freddy,” he says, gesturing for Fred to get back under the covers. “You have to sleep.”

Fred doesn’t move. “I can’t,” he says, because he can’t bring himself to say anything else.

“Okay, just… just wait here, then. I’ll go make you something to drink, okay?”

Fred doesn’t want anything to drink, doesn’t want anything that will make him feel warm because his son is out there, all alone in the cold —

FP comes back with a steaming cup of tea, which he forces into Fred’s hands and towards his lips.

The last thing Fred remembers is FP taking the cup as it slips from his hands and his eyelids grow heavy.

\----

Jughead’s wiping his feet on the mat when FP emerges from the back. Jughead takes in the kitchen counter, making a move to begin washing the piled-up dishes, when he stops in his tracks.

“Did you drug him?” Jughead asks, holding up the white bottle that laid open next to the box of tea.

FP doesn’t even look up. “It’s melatonin, it’s harmless. He just needs to sleep.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Won’t he be mad?”

“No, because he’ll never find out,” FP says, looking pointedly at Jughead. “Right, boy?”

Jughead’s eyes bore holes into his father’s. “Right,” he says slowly. He’s about to say something else, but FP’s brushed passed him hurriedly and into the bathroom.

“Fangs' left his meds here, right? After he got shot?” FP asks as he rummages through the bathroom, throwing open the medicine cabinet.

“I… don’t know,” Jughead says, voice steady, trying to figure out what in the hell had gotten into his father. “He may have taken them with him.”

FP tuts, but breathes out a triumphant “Ha!” seconds later. He turns around to face his son, holding up the orange prescription bottle and then tucking it into his jacket pocket.

“What are you doing?” Jughead asks.

“Making sure Fred can’t get his hands on these. Oxy. He had a problem.” He says it in such a way that Jughead knows better than to ask any more questions.

“So, you’re hiding one drug and giving him another?” Jughead asks instead, a weak and useless attempt to lighten the mood.

FP just glares. “Don’t tell him, okay, boy? He doesn’t need to know.” When Jughead doesn’t answer, FP’s voice rises. “Okay?”

Jughead swallows nervously. “Okay.”

\----

Fred wakes up after what feels like hours. He has no idea what time it is; there's a digital clock on the bookcase across the room, but it’s not plugged in and Fred can’t be bothered.

He realizes that he has no idea where his phone is either — not that it matters. Archie knows better than to call him where Hiram can trace it, and there’s nobody else that needs to get ahold of him. He tosses the covers off his body and pads into the bathroom, catching the briefest of glances of his reflection in the mirror. He does a double take, realizing that he looks as awful as he feels. He stares at his reflection, and for the first time in his life, realizes what his mother was talking about when she said Archie looked like him. He knows that it’s his face, his _eyes_ , staring back at him, but in that moment it’s like Archie’s right there, starting at him from the other side of the mirror. Like he can see Archie’s wide and scared eyes in his own. He feels himself getting hot, feels his heart pounding in is ears, and clutches the sink with white knuckles.

He hears a knock on the door, hears FP call his name, but he doesn’t respond. Seconds go by, and he watches the door handle turn and it’s only then that he realizes that he’s not at his house, that the bathroom door doesn’t lock, that he’s got to pull himself together before FP opens —

He manages to stay upright for two point five seconds before he collapses into FP’s arms. The sobs that wrack Fred’s body are unlike any FP’s seen before — the choking, mouth-open, heart-wrenching howls that Fred lets out into FP’s chest are almost enough to make him want to do the same.

“Okay,” FP whispers. “It’s okay. I got you.”

His words don’t do anything to deter Fred, so he doesn’t say anything else, because there’s nothing he _can_ say to make this better. Nothing he can do to take this pain, but goddamn he’d give anything, _anything_ —

From the crack in the door, FP catches Jughead’s eye, who’s standing still as a statue, as if somehow Fred’s breakdown has halted time, has suspended movement, has stopped the world from turning because it wasn’t supposed to be like this —

Jughead feels the bile rising, but he shoves it away, because there’s only one bathroom in this goddamn place and Mr. Andrews —

Mr. Andrews is falling apart in it.

Jughead’s made it sixteen years without seeing Mr. Andrews cry — sure, he’s gotten angry, been upset — but never cry. Not like this. The world suddenly seems like it’s out of balance, like a shift in equilibrium, because the Andrews were _good_ people and they didn’t deserve this.

 _The Jones’, maybe,_ he thinks, _but not the Andrews._ Never the Andrews.

He moves away from the door, makes it outside before Mr. Andrews sees him, before he has to listen any further to the sobs that pull his heart to his stomach.

FP, for his part, remains steadfast and strong for Fred who’s done it time and time again for him. He wishes so badly he could do something, could trade himself for Archie, could just get his hands on Hiram Lodge… 

Fred clutches at the neck of FP’s collar and wails into his chest for what seems like hours, and FP can count on one hand the other times he’s felt this helpless. Hopeless, sure, but this helpless… this _useless_ … is unlike any he’s ever felt, has any idea what to do with. Fred’s sobs start to quiet down only when he begins to fall asleep, only when every ounce of energy is drained from his body. He drifts off right there, on the floor of a stranger’s dinghy trailer bathroom in FP’s arms.

FP doesn’t know where Jughead went but he’s glad he made himself scarce, because after he’s certain Fred’s asleep, he carries him bridal style into the bed, searching through the closet of another blanket, unsure if Fred’s shaking because of the cold in the trailer or pure exhaustion.

Fred shakes for a while longer before finally relaxing and settling into the blankets.

\----

When Fred wakes up, his head is pounding, and he feels as sore as if he’d run a marathon. For the briefest moment when his eyes are first greeted by the fluorescent light hanging above him, he tries to ignore the feeling because he’s got to get up and feed Vegas and get breakfast ready for Arch —

Except he doesn’t. He doesn’t have anything to do for anyone because he doesn’t _have_ anyone.

He hears shuffling on the other side of the curtain, watches it ruffle as someone starts to pull it back, and shuts his eyes to feign sleep because he doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now, maybe ever.

Because nothing matters anymore.

He recognizes the heavy footsteps that approach the bed as FP’s. He keeps his eyes shut, his breath steady as he feels FP run his fingers through Fred’s hair. He feels the bed dip as FP sits down, unmoving for a few minutes, then silently gets up and leaves.

 ----

Fred wakes up again and finds the trailer dark. The digital clock across the room had been plugged in and reads two o’clock in the morning, and he can’t hear any rustling or talking in the trailer. He feels around the bed, had expecting to find FP asleep next to him, but it’s empty.

He staggers out of bed, feeling like he’s suffering from the worst hangover he’s ever had, and pulls back the curtain to see Jughead asleep on the couch, knees drawn to his chest, and FP asleep sitting up next to him. He’s got half a mind to go into the living room, to wake them up and tell them to take the bed, because he’s been asleep for half the day. He doesn’t though, because that would require _talking_ to them, and Fred doesn’t want to talk to anyone ever again.

He turns around to go back to bed when he runs into a wooden chair, up against the from door as security. FP’s leather jacket falls off the chair, and when Fred picks it up, he hears a clatter at his feet. He looks down he sees what he’s been waiting for this whole time. 

He doesn’t even look at who it was prescribed to, just sees the first three letters O-X-Y and feels relief wash over him in waves.

He unscrews the bottle and swallows two dry.

 ----

He doesn’t wake up naturally this time. An earthquake wakes him up. Or rather, that’s what it feels like.

It takes him a full minute before he realizes he’s shaking because _someone_ is shaking him. Takes him another minute to realize it’s FP. He’s waving his hand around, clutching something — Fred can’t make out what — but whatever it is, it’s tiny and fits in the palm of…

_Shit._

“Did you take these?” FP says, voice sounding panicked, almost shaking. “Fred, wake up. Did you take these?” He shoves the pill bottle into Fred’s face, shaking its contents.

“What the _fuck_ , FP?” Fred says, batting his arm away.

“Did you take the oxy, Fred?” FP says again, voice tinged with fear and anger.

“What does it matter?” Fred says. He takes the opportunity to take stock in how he’s feeling. His head isn’t pounding for the first time since he watched Archie walk towards the border. His body doesn’t ache. He feels… nothing.

He feels nothing.

And it feels amazing.

“Fred, for fuck’s sake. How many did you take?” FP says, bringing him back to Earth, hauling him into a sitting position.

“Two,” Fred says, his voice low and gravely. He clears his throat. “It’s not a big-”

“ _Jesus_ , Fred. You can’t do that! These were in my pocket-”

 “I’m not a child,” Fred snarls. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

FP’s shoulders sag. “Fred,” he says more softly, sitting on the bed next to Fred, “You had a problem. You can’t do this. Look, I know you’re scared… and sad, but you can’t do this. We’re here to help you. You’ve got to let us help you.”

All at once, Fred feels ashamed, but also angry. Who the fuck was FP to tell him how to act? “You can’t help me,” Fred says, and FP can’t tell if he’s about Fred’s going to punch him or cry.

“Archie’s going to come back,” FP says, holding Fred’s shoulders.

“You don’t know that,” Fred says, angry, punching the mattress with his fist.

FP feels that sinking helpless feeling all over again, like nothing he say will make Fred feel any better. “Tell me what I can do,” he pleads.

“Nothing,” Fred says, the words getting caught in his throat. “There’s nothing anybody can do. It’s over.”

Fred voice is so monotonous that it sounds like a stranger talking. “ _No_ ,” FP says. “How can you say that? With Archie still out there? Are you really going to give up on him?"

Fred tightens his fist against the mattress, balling up the covers into his fingers. “ _I’m not…_ ” he hisses, then hesitates. “I- I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he says, jaw clenched. “I feel like I’m trapped.”

 _You are_ , FP doesn’t say. _We all are._

“Jug and I have been looking for ways into town,” he says instead. “We’re close.”

Fred just shakes his head, looking blankly at his lap. “It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing there. I don’t have anything left…” he says, his voice breaking.

“You have me,” FP says quietly, almost childlike. “And Jug. We’re not going anywhere.” His voice grows stronger. “And we’re going to _bring Archie home._ ”  

Fred blinks, not believing his old friend for a second. But he’s tired — tired of fighting, tired of crying, tired of this town ruining his life and his son’s. So, he just gives FP a weak smile. “Just keep telling me that, would ya?”

FP nods. “But no more of this, okay?" he says, shaking the bottle in his hand.

Fred nods, laying his head back against the pillows. He has no intention of falling back asleep — he’s been sleeping enough already, but FP starts to run his fingers through Fred’s hair and he’s out before he realizes it. FP stays until Fred falls back asleep and waits until his breath is steady and deep to leave the room.

He makes it outside before the tears well in his eyes, before he lets himself think about how absolutely devastating this could turn out in the end. He closes his eyes, willing the thoughts away, and tries to steady his breath.

“ _You have to come back, Red,_ ”he whispers desperately into the cool night air. “ _You’re breaking him._ ”


End file.
